


Dead Men Tell Tales

by Tomatosoupful



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: AU, After all the angst and drama, Ernesto and Miguel hang out, Ernesto gets what he deserves when dead, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Héctor knows Ernesto killed him, It's only redemption if the character actually tries, Kind of redemption arc??, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomatosoupful/pseuds/Tomatosoupful
Summary: It didn't matter that the Land of the Dead knew of his crimes, or that a great-great-grandson named Miguel was slowing him down, or that he'd already spent decades trying and failing to make things right again ......alright, it mattered a lot. But Ernesto wouldn't stand for this unfair afterlife any longer. He had to find Héctor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the people at discord for bringing this AU to light, especially Pengychan (who also beta-read this), dara and rainyday. You guys are super cool and inspirational.

~ 1921 ~

“We’ll do it together,” Héctor had promised him.

When they were nothing more than small boys bursting with massive ambition. When they had only themselves to rely on after their confident proclamations of fame were drowned out by laughter. Naïve, Ernesto had often been called. But at least he and Héctor had been naïve together…

Ernesto flipped through his newly acquired songbook. It was like peeking through a treasure trove. The guitar case bumped against his leg as the train rumbled along the tracks.

Whenever a young impatient Ernesto had miserably wondered if Santa Cecilia was all he was destined for, the trains passing by reminded him that there was a world out there for the taking. An even younger Héctor had said they would catch a train one day and never return…

The bright lights of México City gradually dimmed as Ernesto left it behind. The two of them had arrived there a few days ago. He had remained true to their childhood dream more so than Héctor but that hadn’t mattered then, because at least they were together.

Now, the space between them was growing every second that ticked by. It was the furthest apart they had ever been. Ernesto supposed the physical distance was irrelevant when death was a one-way train.

He shut the songbook with a sense of finality. Héctor had done the same back in their hotel room, packing his bags, choosing to walk away.  

“We’ll do it together,” Héctor had lied to him.

But Ernesto would be damned before he let Héctor walk away first.

 

~ 1922 ~

 _Día de los Muertos_ had begun. Over the week leading up to the holiday, branches had emerged from the dark canyon between the Land of the Dead and the Land of the Living. They crawled up the rocky walls, then slowly reached out to meet at the middle to form a bridge. Upon the day when the veil separating the two worlds was at its weakest, the buds on the branches blossomed into thousands of marigold flowers. It was a sight to behold and some theorised the warmth and glow radiating from the petals were designed to comfort new spirits into their afterlife. Like wrapping one’s self in blankets and going to bed for the night. However, not all spirits were easily comforted.

That was where staff members like Coleta came in.

Her job was to monitor just one bridge, but it was the bridge that called forth spirits torn away from life unexpectedly. Those drawing close to the end by the pull of illness or old age crossed over immediately, the transition smooth due to the soul balancing between the two worlds before finally tipping over. But for souls that were suddenly taken before they could process the change, the transition took much longer. They could only cross on _Día de los Muertos_.

Tonight, Coleta had already guided three newcomers. One, a little girl thrown off her horse. Two, a woman lost to childbirth and thirdly, a man who had been shot down while attempting a robbery.

It was protocol that the staff worked with only four people a night due to the exhausting emotional and mental labour. Coleta kicked the petals at her feet, waiting for her fourth and final person. Once done, she could visit her family in the Living world and drive the haunting words and tragic stories out of her mind.

It was at that moment that Coleta faintly heard something. Someone was crying.

By no means an unusual sound considering the nature of this bridge. However, Coleta couldn’t spot the person responsible and therefore concluded that no one was around to guide them. Following her ears, she chased after the sound until it brought her around a corner and into a narrow alleyway lodged between two arrival stations. To her relief, hidden away in the alley’s shadows, was the crier. As she carefully approached the distraught individual, she made a note to remind her boss that more staff was required so moments like this didn’t happen. The thought of a traumatised newcomer stumbling into the Land of the Dead without proper guidance made her shiver.

Her boots clicked loudly on the cobble ground. The newcomer gasped wetly and scrambled back until they met the brick wall.

“ _Pardon_ , I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Coleta said soothingly. She stayed where she was and shifted to standard script. “My name is Coleta. I’m here to help. What is your name?”

The newcomer didn’t answer. They curled into themselves as tears continued to fall. Patience was required for this occupation however Coleta was conscious of her duty of care. Her fourth person needed a warm drink and soft couches, not a cold isolated alleyway.

“I am here to help you in any way I can. May I please have your name?” she pressed again, hoping her friendlier tone would do the trick.

Coleta ran over her training as the arrival’s sobs dissolved into wet hiccups. Quietly, she took a few steps forward as though approaching a wild injured animal. She could see the arrival better now. His living form was visible but rapidly fading away, leaving behind a skeleton. Coleta still remembered her first day dead, tracing her bones visible underneath her skin as though it was see-through. Starting from her fingertips, her body has disappeared like lifting fog. She had accepted her new skeletal body better than most. However, her death had been peaceful and expected.

Unlike this poor soul.

He shuddered as he caught the state of his hands. All skeleton but outlined by an orange glow that was once his skin. Coleta cleared her throat to get his attention. “Señor, am I allowed to come closer?”

His eyes were glassy, but he managed to nod. Coleta was careful to prevent sudden movements and noise as she joined him. It was cold, damp and the distant scent of tequila hung in the air. Coleta realised it was coming from the newcomer. The circumstance behind this man’s death became apparent. She bent down so she was eye-level with him. He had lowered his head to his chest and fallen back into his misery.

“Señor, please, what is your name? I can properly help you if I know it.”

He seemed so lost to his mourning that Coleta took a moment to realise he wasn’t muttering nonsense through quivering lips but actually attempting to answer.

“Hé – Héctor. It’s …Héctor.” A wet sniff. His hands were trembling.

Pleased with one box ticked, Coleta’s next aim was to lead Héctor inside the station to a private room. “I can help you better señor, if you come with me please. I-I know this isn’t easy,” she hastily added when her arrival flinched. “ _But_ we need to get you comfortable. After that, I can lead you through all the procedures. We can connect you with your family here. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

He shook his head, refusing to look at her.

“I want to go home. My family – I – I was going _home_.”

Coleta worriedly considered her other options as the man sobbed. Security was dismissed from her mind as soon as it entered. Unless the newcomer, Héctor, decided to make a run for it in an emotionally charged bid to escape the truth, security was unnecessary and would most likely make things worse. For now, Coleta committed to repeating the same calming words until they finally slipped through and reached him. “I know you do. I know …I know this is hard,” she whispered. “But everyone comes here eventually. And one day, some day soon, you’ll see your family again –”

“– that’s not fair.”

Coleta closed her mouth. That was a common complaint of many arrivals regardless of how they passed away. The want and need to see their living family and friends was so powerful and strong sometimes that it hurt more to have connections than to go without.

“This isn’t … this isn’t _fair_ ,” Héctor insisted, his voice croaky and shaky. Yet also firm and bitter.

Frowning at the odd tone, Coleta said, “It’s not fair, yes. But things happen and it’s not your fault –”

“– I _know_ it wasn’t my fault.”

Héctor unravelled himself and faced her. The tear tracks running down his face glistened behind the fading skin. Colourful markings decorating his forehead, cheeks and chin were bright and exuberant but overshadowed by the miserable but also furious expression marring what would otherwise be an open and charming face. Coleta’s frown deepened. “Señor?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Héctor hissed, wiping another tear rolling down his cheek. “I was …It was _his_. I heard him. I – I _heard_ him. He said he’d – He said – I can’t believe he would …would do this. I can’t – I can’t…”

Coleta felt a sickening feeling chill her bones. She had heeded the warnings from her colleagues and read the statistics, but all of her training meant nothing now that she was facing a case she had feared confronting from day one. Taking a deep breath, Coleta asked the important question, forgoing comfort in favour of professionalism: “Señor, how did you die?”

He stiffened. The blush pink _mariachi_ suit sat loosely on his skeleton body, the ends of the jacket bundled up in fists. The fading skin had reached his hairline leaving behind a skull still brimming with afterlife yet empty as though an important piece of him had been ripped out and stolen.

“I was murdered.”

~ 1943 ~

Ernesto knew from an early age he was destined for fame.

So, he was never surprised by the riches celebrity life gave him. Adoring fans that screamed his name, national tours that expanded to all four corners of the globe, record sales that marked significant moments in musical historical, and featuring in some of the first talking pictures. All of this was expected.

Ernesto hadn’t counted on a falling bell ending his life.

It was the _Día de los Muertos_ of 1943 when he woke up in a mausoleum. _His_ mausoleum. Once the initial shock passed, he admired the care put into crafting his resting place. His guitar rested upon hooks above his crypt like a crown to a king and alongside it was an appropriately dashing portrait of himself, and that was without appreciating the artistry.

Ernesto’s pleasant mood was quashed when he realised his resting place was located in Santa Cecilia. Someone was getting fired. Luckily, he never had to step foot beyond the walls of the graveyard. At the back end of the cemetery, an orange glow beamed like a sun over the horizon. Something in Ernesto compelled him to investigate.

He met the marigold bridge.

He met others who had also unexpectedly died. Like him, their bodies were fading away to skeleton.

Unlike him, many were following colourful animals. There was a warmth between them that reminded Ernesto of the chihuahuas he had loved across his life. A longing to see them had him turn in all directions with an annoyed frown on his face. What was he supposed to do, walk alone?  

The answer was yes. As Ernesto traversed the bridge he decided he didn’t need any of those animals anyway. He could hardly get lost on a bridge that only went one way and that was to… to …

Ernesto had travelled to many major cities, but none could compare in size and spectacle to the massive city before him. Towers carrying houses stacked on top of houses climbed high into the misty night sky. Thousands of lights blended with bursts of colour, putting all those modernist artworks he never cared for, but was told to like, to shame. Although every aspect of the city was beautiful in its design, Ernesto knew right away that he had to see it from above every time he looked out the window.

It invigorated him, made him feel like he was about to walk onto a stage. At the end of the bridge, there was his audience. With a confident stride, Ernesto approached the nearest skeleton. Her – was it a her? – eye’s widened inside the sockets. That was going to take some getting used to.

It had been a long time since he had needed to introduce himself. So, like all benefits that came with fame, it came as no surprise when the skeleton gasped, “You’re –! You’re Ernesto de la Cruz!”

He winked. “Are who might you be señorita?” Nothing about a moving skeleton was attractive but girls melted like butter and offered him everything if he made them feel like the most important person in the universe.

“Coleta…” she muttered. Maybe it was the bone, but her expression was stiff and uninviting.

“Beautiful name,” he said with a dazzling smile. He’d heard better. “Coleta then, would you –?”

The next thing Ernesto knew, he was staring at the skeleton’s shoes and his chest hurt. His increasingly exposed ribcage was shoved further against the ground as more and more weight landed on top of him. Disorientated, he tried struggling out of the tight grip that had latched onto his wrists and pressed them to his back. He would never admit it but a small part of him born from a childhood nightmare shrieked at the thought of _skeletons_ grabbing him as though trying to tear him apart and devour him. He heard Coleta calling for help and the forces caging him doubled. Ernesto should have stopped fighting them, but he couldn’t get past the utter audacity of these people. Finally regaining his voice after the chaos of confusion rattling his brain, Ernesto glared Coleta and spat, “What is this?! Who do you think you are?! Let me go or –!”

“– de la Cruz.”

A new skeleton moved to stand in front of Coleta, as though trying to protect her. He was wearing a uniform and showed off a badge like it meant something important. Ernesto couldn’t give a damn who this man was.

“What?!” Ernesto barked. The groups of guards roughly hauled him to his feet.

The badge-carrying skeleton looked at him like he was garbage. Ernesto gritted his teeth at the foreign yet somehow familiar gaze.  

“Ernesto de la Cruz, you are under arrest for the theft, and murder of Héctor Rivera under the Land of the Dead’s laws of …”

Whatever was said afterwards was unheard. Ernesto froze where he stood, his knees suddenly weak. It felt like the ground beneath him had opened up and was swallowing him whole. Gazing up at the beautiful city again, Ernesto saw it for what it was: the Land of the Dead. All who Death had taken was here.

 _Héctor_ was here. Héctor was _here_.

 And he’d –

“No!” Ernesto’s voice cracked. He saw the skeletons surrounding them. Some giving him the cold shoulder, some showing their fury, others shaking their head in disappointment or horror. They knew, they _all_ knew. “No, no, no. I didn’t – I didn’t!”

They were dragging him away. Seized by his panic, Ernesto tried escaping the guards, scratching their bones and ripping tears into their sleeves. The skeleton – a _police officer_ – took the lead, directing Ernesto’s captors.

“I didn’t – I didn’t do it!” Ernesto yelled desperately. “He’s lying! Please! He’s always lied!”

“Save it for court,” the officer answered without looking at him.

“No – stop! Let me go! I didn’t – I would never! He’s lying to you!”

Ernesto screamed his innocence till his throat went raw and he lost his voice but still, no one believed him.

From then on, _Día de los Muertos_ of 1943 was remembered for the arrival of Ernesto de la Cruz, one of the most beloved men in the Land of the Living but most despised in the Land of the Dead for his crimes against Héctor Rivera.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ernesto ain't exactly enjoying his afterlife.

~ 2016 ~

This year’s _Día de los Muertos_ was going well so far.

Miguel had managed to snatch a shower before his cousins could hog it. Breakfast was eaten in peace without his Abuelita there trying to make his stomach explode. Mamá Coco had even weakly muttered a few words of encouragement when he told her about school. Yeah, today was going to be a good day!

Collecting shoe polish and brushes, Miguel strolled out of the workshop. Almost all of his family were there, hunched over their tools and equipment. He promised his Mamá to return for lunch before racing off down the street. Neighbours greeted him, and bands located a safe distance from the Rivera property played their instruments.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Miguel was munching on a snack and checking out a bunch of _alebrije_ figurines sitting on a table for sale. He had no money left to buy one, so he moved along, playfully tapping a garbage bin next to the table. Something inside reacted and the bin tumbled to the ground, the lid clattering loudly.

Miguel grinned when a _Xolo_ dog emerged, eagerly flapping his bat-like ears. “Hey, Dante!”

He held the last mouthful of his pan dulce up high and tried to encourage the dog to perform a few tricks. Some were done better than others. To Miguel though, the dog behaved perfectly. “Good boy Dante!”

He tossed the last piece. Dante’s mouth was wide-open, ready to catch it.

Suddenly, a brown blur rushed past them. Dante clamped his jaws shut on nothing. Miguel gasped as he saw a chihuahua enthusiastically gobble down Dante’s snack. “Hey! That’s not yours!”

The tinier dog swallowed without a second thought. Miguel slouched as Dante whined. The chihuahua’s wet nose perked up, as though it had found another enticing scent. Before Miguel could do anything, the thief bolted away. He would have laughed watching its twig legs trying to carry its greedy belly, but he was more focused on his empty pockets and a good dog waiting for his food.

“I’m sorry boy. You’ll get your treat next time.”

Luckily, Dante forgave him quickly, happily licking his cheek. Then the _Xolo_ turned to where the chihuahua had disappeared, growled softly, before switching back to licking Miguel again. For Dante’s sake, Miguel put up with the slobber for a few more seconds than usual.

Despite their unusual guest, Miguel and Dante proceeded to make their way to the town plaza like they normally did. Wonderful music welcomed them upon their arrival. It brought a smile to Miguel’s face, especially when Dante’s tail wagged faster, as though it was moving to the song’s beat. It was strange that he had more in common with a street dog than his own family, but he was used to this by now.

Miguel was _not_ like his family and he was fine with that. Really.

~o0o~

This year’s _Día de los Muertos_ was going terribly so far.

Ernesto’s shower had been rudely cut off when the apartment complex lost its hot water. Breakfast was non-existent thanks to an empty fridge and bank account. And the pay check he was supposed to get today from his clients had been withheld from him only to be replaced with a scathing email terminating their contract. It had taken all of Ernesto’s willpower not to email them back, telling them exactly where they could shove that pay check. He had more important things to do anyway (like make an emergency visit to the bank).

Upon entering a main street, Ernesto reached up to tug his hood down, hoping it would adequately hide his face. Not that he was ashamed of his handsome face or anything. He just didn’t need people bothering him today. His arms were already sore – one carrying grocery bags and the other, a stack of edited papers. The latter of which was supposed to be delivered today but this morning’s email had proven that trip was no longer necessary. Spotting a garbage bin, Ernesto tossed the papers inside. Even though the physical weight was gone, the failure they represented still sat heavily in his ribcage.

To distract himself, he craned his neck up to gaze at the Rivera tower. It was pure white and far more majestic from a distance than up close. The owners had little care for frivolous decorations or artistry, designing the tower and the mansion on top to be practical and appropriate for a dead family and the Nearly-Forgotten community they housed. This had earned the praise of many commentators. Ernesto had rolled his eyes the first time he heard the news. Why Héctor cared for those people he’d never understand.

Yet the Rivera tower had become a consistent part of his death, gracing its guards with his presence on …more than one occasion. Maybe two. Or three …or a lot more.

And they were about to see him again.

Two guards were stationed at the entrance to the tower’s funicular system. When they noticed Ernesto coming they slouched. Hilarious. Ernesto wasn’t exactly peachy keen to see them either. Just as he opened his mouth to give a charming greeting, one of the guards – Justino – cut in. “Do we have to go through this today?”

Ernesto forced a smile. “You won’t regret this.”

The other guard – Letitia, he was familiar with them enough to know their names, and he hated it – groaned and rubbed the bones underneath her eye sockets. “I promise you, I’ll regret it,” she said shortly.

“…Thanks,” Ernesto eventually said. “Anyway –”

Letitia shared a pained look with her partner. “ _Díos mio_ , do we have to –?”

“– _Anyway_ , I need to talk to –”

Justino raised a palm. “– To el Señor Rivera? We know. We …” he sighed. “We know.”

Without fail, Ernesto always felt like a fool around these two. “If you already know, why don’t we just skip the pleasantries and you let me go ahead?”

He moved forward but Justino and Letitia sidestepped to form a solid bony wall between him and the tower. Letitia’s eyes narrowed as she said with a threatening tone, “You know how this goes. He doesn’t want to see you.”

“I heard you the first hundred times,” Ernesto muttered under his breath. He wished he was kidding. Clapping his hands together, he insisted brightly, “He _will_ once I…see, I have a plan to help him cross the bridge.”

Letitia looked bored but Justino at least had enough in him to appear interested. “If your plan sounds like it could work we’ll tell el Señor Rivera.”

 _Now_ we were getting somewhere! Ernesto shrugged light-heartedly, hoping he didn’t come off as desperate. “That’s not necessary. I can tell him myself.”

Justino tiredly shut his eyes and Letitia frowned. “Or we can send you on your way.”

“Bad idea,” Ernesto shot it down immediately. “Now, listen. My memory is still intact –”

“– Unfortunately,” Letitia mumbled.

Ernesto’s grin twitched. “ _Therefore,_ I can carry Héctor while I cross the bridge.” He held his arms out like he had presented the greatest gift to mankind.

Neither of the guards looked impressed. Justino awkwardly scratched the back of his skull. “You’re banned from crossing the bridge,” he said.

“You don’t need to remind me.” Ernesto was well aware of that irritating fact.

Letitia glared. “Well apparently we do! What kind of plan is this?”

“A good one, thank you!” Ernesto insisted, panicking on the inside. He was losing them! “You’re telling me the bridge security wouldn’t let me help my oldest, dearest friend cross?”

 “Yes,” the two answered.

“…that’s unreasonable.”

Despite being dead like everyone else in this realm, both Justino and Letitia seemed to visibly age in front of him. Justino gave Ernesto an agonising look before saying, “Here’s the thing –”

“– Don’t tell him!” Letitia barked, and Ernesto flinched. Instead of retreating he only drew closer.

Justino cowered under his partner’s disappointment. Meekly, he said, “I’m only telling him so he’ll stop bothering us.”

Ernesto gritted his teeth. “Thanks. Again.”

Letitia only sighed grumpily but didn’t go further, allowing Justino to say his piece. “The Rivera’s have already tried your idea. The rest all have pictures and they couldn’t carry him across anyway.”

 _And that’s that_ , the guards were hoping.

 _Nope_ , said Ernesto. “Okay, but they’re not as famous as me.”

Letitia shook her head, visibly disgusted. “That doesn’t matter, you moron. And besides, even if it did work they’d ask someone else, someone just as famous as you.”

Ernesto was often full of words to share with the world but this time he found himself running short. His name was famous and beloved by México ( _and_ the whole globe, don’t forget!) in the Land of the Living but there were still people out there with greater significance than him. Shocking, he knew but it was true.

“Do us a favour …” Justino spoke again when it became obvious Ernesto needed a more obvious invitation to leave. “Let us enjoy the rest of our shift in peace, please.”

“This is uncalled for,” Ernesto said defensively. “I’m just trying to help.”

Justino and Letitia frowned sceptically, though the latter’s features were infinitely sharper. “Why would el Señor Rivera want your help when it’s _your_ fault he can’t cross in the first place?” she snapped, her patience gone.

 _Now_ Ernesto was offended. “That was Imelda’s fault! She’s the one who didn’t put up his photo.”

 “It helps if you’re told your dead loved one is indeed dead,” Justino hotly replied. Oh, that’s right, Ernesto had forgotten the guard had a soft spot for Imelda. As if that stubborn woman needed any more worshippers.

Letitia then added coldly, “Bold of you to blame la Señora Rivera, you _thief_.”

“Now, hang on –!”

“– you _murderer_.”

A painful shiver crashed over him. Instinctively, he anxiously inspected the crowd around him in case anyone had overheard and made the connection. If he had a beating heart, it would have leapt out of his chest, splitting off the ribs. Maybe he still did, it felt like it had abandoned him. It had felt like that throughout the entire court case between him and Héctor.

“…the courts couldn’t prove it,” Ernesto hissed.

No one else had been there the night Héctor fell to his knees and died at the young age of twenty-one. No one else had been there to find a poisoned shot glass or a receipt for rat poison. Despite this though …

Letitia sneered. “Anyone with half a brain cell knows what you did.”

Like a burst vein, Ernesto was suddenly overwhelmed with anger. “Listen! You don’t know …” his voice trailed away.

At the corner of his vision, he saw them. Two chihuahuas. Living ones, not _alebrijes_. They looked exactly like Clara and Zita, two of the dogs he had cherished in his life and had gone without in death.

 _What_?!

Ernesto was running before he even realised it. He ignored the guards yelling after him. He dived into the crowd, trying to get to the corner of the street where the two dogs were. He couldn’t see them anymore through the numerous skulls and dressed skeleton bodies, but he had seen them! They were there!

Ernesto fell out of the crowd and his excitement cracked. The chihuahuas were gone. Unwilling to let it go, Ernesto searched every corner of the street and the nearby alleyways. He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled, calling their names. But no one answered. They were gone. As though they hadn’t been there at all.

That hurt far more than Ernesto wanted to admit.

~o0o~

It wasn’t every day a living animal wandered through the Land of the Dead’s streets. Two of them was even rarer. Skeletons paused their conversations and stared at the two chihuahuas scurrying along without a care in the world. They weaved through the sea of bones in a committed stride. One of them yipped and gladly accepted pets from passing children, while the other turned her nose up at an offered hand. No matter the distraction, the dogs were quick to return to their duty.

Whatever _that_ was, the skeletons wondered.

One particular woman noticed the dogs occasionally stopped and tilted their heads momentarily before moving on again. Following their direction, the woman frowned at the object of their attention: the Rivera tower.

~o0o~

Ernesto set the cups of tea down. “I thought you were too busy to visit,” he said tiredly.

Across from him sat his mother. Adela gave a light-hearted shrug wearing a small smile. “Your Papá and I aren’t doing much this year. Just staying in for the night.” Her voice was soft and delicate, as were her movements as she picked up her tea and blew.

“That’s what he’s done every year. Coward still can’t handle the fireworks –”

“– Tito, don’t. Please.”

The words died at his throat. His mother sounded exhausted, the cup trembling in her hands. A painful feeling sank in his gut. He considered apologising to quell the guilt, but it gave way to an old frustration directed at his father. By now, Ernesto was used to a sullen and distant relationship with his mother. Therefore, the only other person responsible for her fatigue was her _dearest_ husband, who she chose to remain with in death for reasons Ernesto couldn’t wrap his head around. The old goat should consider himself lucky Ernesto had been reigned back by his mother, like a cannon abandoned in the midst of war.

Adela took a tentative sip of her tea and sighed softly. Her relief made Ernesto feel slightly better, but his mood suffered again when he noticed the stack of paperwork surrounding them, strewn across all corners of the table. The rest of the apartment was a mess too. Aside from the layer of paper and stationary, the room was plain and dull, as though Ernesto had only moved in yesterday rather than a year ago. Suddenly ashamed of it, Ernesto got up and gathered the papers, ignoring his mother’s query.

“ _Míjo_? What are you …? Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.”

Ernesto shoved the papers into a drawer, a few them bent and crumbled. He hoped she wouldn’t ask about his work.

“Are those the scripts you’re working on?”

Dammit. Ernesto sighed roughly. “Not anymore.”

He regretted answering when she frowned with concern. “Oh no. Has it happened again?”

The pity in her voice made Ernesto grip the draw handle tightly. He turned to her but failed to meet her eye. Adela was waiting patiently for a reply, but Ernesto far preferred the silence. It gave him a chance to collect himself. He wasn’t about to blurt out any foolish statements. “It was bound to happen,” he eventually said through a casual façade. He knew she wouldn’t buy it, but he was too used to selling it at this point.

There was a time in his life when the director only needed to say “action” and a brand-new character was born through the great Ernesto de la Cruz’s acting. Everyone admired his skills, the clarity of his dialogue, the realistic and humble gestures, and the subtle but powerful expressions. Now, he couldn’t even remain anonymous without someone uncovering his identity.

This was the fifteenth time. He supposed the punks determined to sniff him out were too invested in their detective fantasies to consider how it was affecting him. No one wanted to hire him. He recalled reclining back in a chair once, casually skipping through the roles he didn’t care for, out of a long list of requests. Now, Ernesto was like a starving rat, desperate to take any job he could get. In order to get hired, he’d had to adopt an anonymous name and …

…well, there was a hole in the wall of an old apartment because of that. He was named and christened _Ernesto de la Cruz_ by his parents and he couldn’t even be that anymore. And for what? Dependency on flimsy dial-up internet that screeched at him even on good days, and an apartment as silent as a hopeless musician’s concert. 

Ernesto quietly sat down again. His tea was finally cool enough to drink. He noticed his mother staring at him, still concerned over the news. “I’ll find another job,” he muttered, wanting to leave this conversation behind already.

“But you liked this one. It suited you.”

Ernesto snorted. Editing scripts for low-budget independent movies, advertisements and plays no one would bother seeing, hardly suited him. Maybe if his day hadn’t gone so terribly, he might have admitted that he garnered a semblance of enjoyment from it. But only to his mother, and even then, that inkling of joy died quickly whenever he remembered it should be _him_ reciting the very lines he was editing. “It paid the bills. That’s all.”

He watches his mother shake her head. She used to do that all time when he was a boy and spinning tall tales that captivated the younger children in town, but never tricked her. Whenever his lies were caught like flies in a spider’s web, she would press a knuckle to her lip as ideas of punishment floated in her head. They were always better than whenever his father had to do the thinking. Yet the way she currently held that familiar gesture made Ernesto feel wary.

“ _Míjo_ , join us tonight,” she said, then rose her volume over her son’s sigh. “Please. I’ll cook your favourite. There’s still time for me to –”

 “– No Mamá.”

“But –!” she cut herself off. Her dress was being strangled in her hands. “Your Papá, he’s been wanting to see you.”

“And I haven’t.” Irritated, he took a long sip of his tea hoping his mother would catch the hint and stop.

“ _Please_ , he’s desperate to talk to you.”

“If he’s so desperate, he can get up out of bed and see me! But we both know he won’t.” Ernesto slammed the cup down. His mother flinched and didn’t say anything else.

Guilt came crawling back again, tearing through his bones. But again, an apology failed to enter and ease the tension. The mother and son finished their tea in silence.

Minutes later, the door to the hallway was opened and Ernesto was watching his mother struggle to button up her woolly coat. She hissed when the third button slipped out. Her hands were trembling again. Ernesto reached out to help but she recoiled. He froze. She might as well have punished him like his Papá used to.

The meaning behind her actions abruptly hit her, and she cradled her son’s hands in hers.

“Tito …”

“Mamá, are you okay? The old man hasn’t been giving you trouble, has he?”

As usual, she shook her head, wistfully looking at him. She gave his hands a comforting squeeze, then muttered, “He’s fine. We’re fine. Just …please. I don’t want you spending the whole night trying to … trying to talk to _him_.”

Ernesto’s hands stiffened in her grasp. He could never be angry with her, but this was the closet he could get. “I just need to get him to listen –”

“– He hung on to your every word when you were little,” his mother interrupted. “So, if he won’t listen to you now, he won’t listen to you _ever again_.”

“You don’t know that! I just need him to listen. That’s – that’s it. I just want _one_ conversation. That’s all I need to fix things.”

Adela’s shoulders fell in defeat. Sadly, she whispered, “Do you really think you have the right to ask that of him?”

Ernesto removed his hands from hers. She didn’t try to reconnect them. Ernesto muttered a “goodbye” as she shuffled out the door. If she had it in her to say, “ _Te amo_ ,” like she always did, then Ernesto didn’t hear it. He had already closed the door and switched the television on.

Gossip stories and cringe-worthy journalism gave the impressions that there was someone else in the apartment other than himself. Ernesto didn’t pay attention to anything that was said, just allowed the noise to flow over him. His foot bumped against a pillow on the floor. He bent down to grab it then lost motivation half way through, leaving it behind and bringing the empty cups to the kitchen sink. As he slowly washed the cups with the energy of a depleted battery, Ernesto looked out the small window situated above him. In the distance, he could see the Rivera tower.

Somewhere, at the very top, was Héctor.

And the stupid prick refused to talk to him.

Ernesto scrubbed a cup harder, scratching the porcelain.

He remembered a scrawny boy excitedly pointing to the trains and promising they’d go together.

_And where are you now?_

Ernesto retreated from the window. He collapsed in his single soft chair. The televisions’ channel blended into pointless colours and sounds. He rested his chin in his hand and tried to think of something, _anything_ , that would help him reach Héctor.

 _Scratch, scratch_.

Ernesto sat upright, a chill coursing through him. Someone was at the door. The last visitor that wasn’t his mother hadn’t exactly been his number one fan. Ernesto wondered how his bones would handle falling from nine floors. If that was what he had to do to escape he was willing! As the scratching persisted, Ernesto flung off his chair and moved towards the window.

“Yip! Yip!”                                                     

Ernesto was climbing onto the cabinets when he heard it. He paused. The yipping continued.

He knew that bark.

Ernesto bumped his knee against the cabinet as he launched off. He definitely noticed it, swearing at the pain, but it was only the second most important thing on his list of priorities as he flung open the door.

There, sitting contently and tail wagging, was his black chihuahua Lobo.

Ernesto soaked in the sight of his old companion, hardly believing the dog was here after decades of nothing. The wonder dissolved away …

“And where have you been?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would like to thank Pengychan for letting me use the names she had picked out for Ernesto’s dogs and for beta-reading this chapter. THANKS! 
> 
> Also, another big thank you to everyone who read, gave kudos and commented. It was lovely seeing the positive responses.

**Author's Note:**

> The chihuahuas will eventually show up again. Just not yet. We will also eventually learn how Héctor knows Ernesto killed him. I'm just keeping it ~~mysterious~~ for now. Thanks for reading!


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